


Progress Report

by andthebluestblue, Shayvaalski



Series: The Kids Are Alright [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Family Issues, Gen, Kid Fic, Parent-Child Relationship, Parentlock, moran family values, seb moran: minder of highly sensitive people, the kids are alright
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/pseuds/andthebluestblue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian glances at Jim, who is looking at him without expression. “You’d have to tell me how you were as a teenager for me to guess.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progress Report

**Author's Note:**

> A multi-chaptered fic! That will update!

In the mornings after Jim has left to take Siobhan to school, Sebastian reads. It is the only truly quiet time he has, with his man and daughter gone; and if he’s honest with himself it’s the first true silence he’s had in years. When Jim’s with their girl he doesn’t worry about either of them; Jim’s whole attention narrows down onto Siobhan and hers opens to include him, and the road to the primary school is safe. He made sure. 

Sebastian hasn’t finished a book in half a dozen years: before his daughter was Moriarty, and before that was the Army, and Eton and Oxford were a long time ago. 

(Except for Jim’s books. Those he has finished. But Seb is still Jim’s right-hand man and this is part of the job—Seb will work for Jim until he dies—and not for pleasure. Well. For a kind of pleasure.)

He’s reading Call of the Wild. When he hears Jim coming up the walk he hides it under the throw pillow, carefully. It’s just an old paperback–they have an early edition somewhere, leather bound and carefully preserved, but Seb read enough ancient, valuable books at Uni and he remembers the way sweat pricked down his backbone with the fear of ruining them–but it is an old paperback that’s made it three months in one piece, and he would like to finish it without having to buy another copy.

Not that Jim or Siobhan wouldn’t replace it; but this copy is worn enough that it feels soft in his hands, but not worn enough for the spine to be cracked, and he likes that.

“Racist, imperialistic trash,” says Jim, breezing in without looking at him. Seb just about swallows his tongue. He’s used to Jim, sure, but some things are harder to get used to than others. “You can do better. Kipling or London? You get on a particular  _face,_  darling, you’re not exactly _subtle_.”

“London. Cock.”

“Language,” sings out Jim, almost caroling. “Whatever  _shall_  we do about that mouth of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Seb looks thoughtful, hyper-aware of Jim’s presence white-hot and heavy behind him. “Gave you a pretty good suggestion just then.”

A blank bright moment, and then Jim snorts, and scrabbles over the back of the couch to land nearly in Sebastian’s lap. He takes his time getting comfortable, and ends with leaning against the arm of the sofa, one arm hanging over the back, one foot dangling, the other knee crooked proprietarily over Seb’s legs. Sebastian rests a hand on his ankle, waits a moment to see if it will be tolerated–Jim presses against it, infinitesimal. Good day, then.

“So,” says Jim, after a while. “Progress report time, Sebastian.”

“Again? Already? I thought it was once a year—” Seb tries to remember if he ever got two in a year when  _he_  was in school, but then he had only been sent to England in time for secondary; if he’d gotten them in Puducherry he has no memory of it. Jim sighs, noisily.  

“I meant more  _generally_. I have no concerns about Siobhan’s intelligence, or her marks. Or, indeed, her willingness to behave as expected while in the classroom.” He squints against the morning sun like a cat, eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, and then opens them again to look at Seb. His pupils are very dark. They drink the light, and Sebastian thinks of the girl looking at him in the kitchen, ten months back. Jim flicks the soft inside of his elbow. “Conclusions, Moran, you must have drawn them.”

“Well, she’s clearly related to—” starts Sebastian, and Jim gives him a disgusted look. Answers that question, anyway; and Seb makes a mental note to never ask again, even sideways. 

He’s quiet for a long time; and Jim, uncharacteristically, lets him think in relative peace, making only the little restless changes in position that are the closest he comes to stillness when he is not working. 

“She’s doing alright, better than I expected; but it’s going to be hell,” he says, finally. Jim makes a soft sound, negation or dismissal; and Seb shakes his head. “I don’t mean it’s impossible. I mean it’s gonna be rough going. For—I’d say at least the next five years, minimum. After that it’ll be different; maybe worse, maybe better.” Sebastian glances at Jim, who is looking at him without expression. “You’d have to tell me how you were as a teenager for me to guess.” 

Jim preens, and stretches so that a line of skin shows between trousers and the hem of his shirt. “Brilliant and charming,” he drawls, then pauses. “A  _bit_  high-maintenance, but mostly brilliant. And charming.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Sebastian rubs at his chin, thoughtfully. “Well. I can handle that, I guess. Long as I know what’s coming. Shame she doesn’t have anyone to be friends with.”

“Yes,” says Jim, innocent. “Isn’t it?”


End file.
